


In Sickness and in Health

by SilverSkiesAtMidnight



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Boyfriends, Established Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Illness, He's going to work on them don't worry, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Illness, Pandemics, Peter Parker Has Issues, Peter Parker Whump, Sickfic, an excessive amount of cussing, author copes with existential terror by putting it in a fic, quarantine fic, the mortifying ordeal of relying on other people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:20:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25402240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverSkiesAtMidnight/pseuds/SilverSkiesAtMidnight
Summary: Viruses fucking suck, and that is Peter’s PSA for the day. Feel free to quote him on that.What do they evendo? What, be tiny and invisible and mess up people’s day? The hell kind of a hobby isthat?They’re just like itsy-bitsy supervillains, onlyworsebecause you can’t punch them, and all Peter’s quips only make other people feel marginally better and right now really aren’t making him feel better at all, and they just really, really suck, okay?He tells Dr. Banner all of this in a voice that’s a little more honest and a little less funny than he’d been going for.Bruce’s eyes are deeply understanding, and deeply tired.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 143
Collections: The Best Peter Parker Whump Fics





	In Sickness and in Health

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact about me, the author: I've got pre-existing issues with my lungs, which means if/when I get covid, I'm probably going to require hospitalization at the very least. Bonus fun fact: I'm in the US, and my state has been one of the worst at handling the pandemic. Our case numbers are insane, and our hospitals are already packed. Yayy!
> 
> Anyway, my point here is I wrote this while under quarantine after potential exposure. I didn't end up getting sick, but yeah, I'm telling you this to give you a picture of what my mindset was like writing this, and I think that mood kind of maybe shows in this a little bit. 
> 
> My MAIN point here is that I wrote this as a coping mechanism. However, I've been avoiding reading any quarantine/sick fics lately, because reading fic for me is a kind of escapism and I don't really feel like reading anything too close to reality right now. If you're the same as me in that regard, great!! I strongly recommend you go read something else, because escapism wasn't really my goal with this fic, and I don't think it really provides that for anyone else.

Viruses fucking suck, and that is Peter’s PSA for the day. Feel free to quote him on that. 

What do they even _do_? What, be tiny and invisible and mess up people’s day? The hell kind of a hobby is _that_? 

They’re just like itsy-bitsy supervillains, only _worse_ because you can’t punch them, and all Peter’s quips only make other people feel marginally better and right now really aren’t making him feel better at all, and they just really, really suck, okay?

He tells Dr. Banner all of this in a voice that’s a little more honest and a little less funny than he’d been going for. 

Bruce’s eyes are deeply understanding, and deeply tired. 

The dark circles under them look about ready to swallow him whole, honestly, even partially covered by the mask, and Peter feels a little guilty for rambling, as if he really has any place to complain in the midst of all this. 

“Unfortunately, there’s just no way to know whether you’re infected so soon after potential exposure,” Bruce says gently. “I personally won’t feel comfortable clearing you for at least a week, taking into account the fact that your metabolism tends to speed things up a bit, but even then you could still be a carrier unless I’m able to test you. And right now I’m low enough on testing kits as is, though we’re doing our best to get more. Stark’s turned most of the company’s resources towards test development, but there’s a lot of places in need outside of this tower, and we’re stretched pretty thin. I’m very sorry.” 

Peter bobs his head mechanically, biting his lip. “Yeah, I know. S’not your fault.” 

“Peter, your aunt - ” he says, voice gentling even more. 

“Yeah, I know,” he repeats dully. “I can’t go near her or her apartment. We’ve already been doing that since she works at the hospital and all.”

Bruce sighs, raising one hand as though to adjust his glasses, before dropping it again when he remembers the clear plastic shield between his face and his hand. “You’re going to have to be quarantined. Now, I’m not comfortable letting you quarantine alone in your own apartment, since based on your prior history it seems like on the rare occasion you do get sick, your enhanced immune system means it hits hard and fast. I still think there’s a relatively small chance that you’re actually infected, but I definitely want someone around to monitor you. Since you can’t stay with your aunt, I think it’s best you stay here at the tower. We’ll make sure you’re comfortable. I promise, you’ll have the most luxurious quarantine outside of the suite Tony set Pepper up with last month,” he says, offering a small smile in a weak attempt at comfort. 

“Thanks Dr. Banner, that - that means a lot,” Peter says, giving him a tired smile in return. “But, I, um. I think I’m just gonna stay with my boyfriend.” 

Bruce blinks at him in surprise, but recovers quickly. “Oh! Well, that is still going to run into the same issue as with your aunt…”

“No, he’s uh...he’s a mutant, actually. He doesn’t really get sick, he should be fine,” Peter says, shifting uncomfortably on the plastic, hospital-style chair. 

“Ah,” Bruce says eloquently. His hand twitches again as if to touch his glasses. “I suppose in that case I have no objections. Just make sure he has my number in case anything happens.”

“Yeah, of course.” He drums his fingers against the plastic, suddenly incredibly sick of the blank walls in the temporary hospital room, the scent of antiseptic that has been burning his nose since he got here, and fiercely eager to get somewhere less enclosed. “So is that everything?”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s everything.” He raises an eyebrow as Peter stands up. “You know, I’m a little surprised this is the first time I’m hearing anything about this boyfriend. You didn’t want to bring him by for a team dinner?” 

“Ah, well,” he chuckles awkwardly. “You know how it is, we haven’t been together _that_ long, and besides, you know how Tony gets about...things.” He waves a hand vaguely. 

Bruce smiles understandingly. “I know what you mean,” he says. “Keep in contact, let me know if you have _any_ symptoms, okay?” 

“You got it, doc,” Peter says, already heading out the door, offering him a brief thumbs up. “Get some sleep, you and Tony can’t _both_ be running on coffee and heroism.” 

“Point taken,” Bruce calls after him, already picking up his coffee mug and turning to return to his lab, where Peter knows damn well he has no plans of sleeping. 

Peter understands completely.

…

He waits to pull out his phone until he’s outside the tower. It might be paranoid, he knows Tony doesn’t _try_ to invade his privacy, but he’s too cautious to take the risk of pulling up Wade’s contact info under the Tower’s surveillance.

He taps out a quick message to let him know he’s coming. Then, he puts his phone away, and does the one thing that never fails to boost his mood: swinging at ridiculous speeds and heights until he can’t think past the adrenaline. It’s a solid plan, probably one of the best ones he’s ever come up with. 

By the time he reaches Wade’s apartment, he’s breathless, sweating, and the calmest he’s been all day. He doesn’t hesitate to push open the unlocked window, trading in the freedom of the sky for the security of the place that’s become more home than his own apartment. Expertly avoiding the trip wire, he slips in, pulling his mask off and following the smell of frying bacon and the sound of humming into the kitchen.

He finds Wade standing in front of the stove, cheerfully flipping another pancake out of the pan and onto the alarmingly large stack on a plate beside him. 

Peter snorts, unable to help himself, and Wade stops humming, turning to grin at him. “Baby boy!” he chirps happily. 

Peter doesn’t hesitate, padding straight through the kitchen and up to his boyfriend to smoosh his forehead into the taller man’s chest. 

Wade lets out a quiet huff against his hair, switching the burner off and wrapping his arms around him in turn. “Tough day?” He murmurs.

“I got sneezed on by a woman I saved,” he mumbles back. 

Wade stiffens slightly, betraying his light tone when he says, “Well, maybe she was just allergic to you! You don’t know that that’s _not_ a spider bite side effect.”

Peter shakes his head as much as he can while still keeping his face squished against the other man. “Nope,” he says, popping the p. “She confirmed she tested positive a week ago.”

Wade lets out a long breath. “Guess you’re in quarantine, huh?”

“Yep,” he says. He lifts his head, finally looking him in the face. “Can I stay with you until I’m out? I can’t risk staying with May, and I don’t want to be stuck in my apartment alone for two weeks.” He carefully leaves out Dr. Banner’s recommendation that he should be kept monitored, not wanting to pressure Wade into letting him stay if he’s not comfortable with it. 

But Wade answers without hesitation. “Of course, my beloved bug!” he says, smacking a wet kiss on his forehead. “You’re always welcome here. Besides, I am literally the ideal quarantine buddy, you have awesome taste.”

Peter huffs a laugh, pulling away and taking a deep, steadying breath, mood improving just by being in his lover's presence. "Except I have supersenses, which means I know for a _fact_ that you haven’t done laundry in at least a week." 

"Slander! I did the laundry on Tuesday!"

"First of all, it's Monday, second of all you were at my place on Tuesday so it wasn’t _this_ Tuesday, and finally that stain on your shirt is from the last time we ate at that taco stand on 4th, which hasn't been open in a month."

Wade looks down at the stain on his shirt in dismay. "Damn. I meant to tide pen that."

"Oh my god, you don't belong anywhere near food, you walking FDA violation," Peter says, reaching around him to grab at the pancakes. 

Wade snatches the pan up, holding it easily over his head. "Nuh uh, I'm your quarantine buddy now, no takesy-backsies! That means you have to go pick us something happy to watch and I'll bring the food to you when it's done. If you wanted to make your own pancakes you should've thought about that before being a superhero and getting sneezed on," he finishes primly. 

Raising his hands in defeat, Peter steps back, laughing even though he knows it’ll only encourage him. “Alright, alright, who am I to deny you the chance to play dutiful boyfriend?" he says. His smile fades slightly, though he does his best to keep it in place. "Imma go call Aunt May first, though, let her know what's going on." 

Wade grimaces sympathetically, giving him one last kiss on the forehead before allowing him to slip out of the kitchen and back to the bedroom for as much privacy as possible, which by this point is honestly as much "their" bedroom as Wade's. 

He takes his phone from his pocket, pacing as he pulls up her contact, already hating that he has to make this call.

May doesn't pick up, which doesn't shock him. His odds of catching her on a break were tiny. "Hey, this is May Parker. You missed me, but I'll call you back as soon as I can!" her voicemail says cheerfully, and he clears his throat as the mailbox beeps. 

"Hey May, it's Peter. Duh," he laughs, hoping it doesn't sound as forced as it feels. "So, listen, I kind of helped this woman today who turned out to be sick, and Bruce is putting me in quarantine. Um, he says it's best if I stay with someone, so I'm going to be at Wade's for the next two weeks. You know, I'm probably not even going to get sick, but anyway. Just...figured I'd let you know I'm not going to be making it over for dinner on Friday. Ha. Look on the bright side, I can't get into any trouble superheroing when I'm stuck inside, right? Um. Yeah, so sorry to worry you, because I know you’re going to worry, but please try not to, okay? I’m fine. I love you," he finishes. He hangs up, ts the call, slightly guilty at how relieved he feels not to have had to actually talk to her just yet. 

He already feels bad enough, piling this on top of everything else. He _knows_ how much he worries her at the best of times. And she's been so exhausted and so stressed lately, with work and all the fear and uncertainty that seems to make up everyone’s whole world these days. This is the last thing she needs, and he hates that he can't do anything to keep it from adding to her burdens. 

He sighs, deciding before anything else, he deserves a fucking shower to wash off the hell day he's just had. 

By the time he finishes, he finds he actually is hungry enough to be excited about the meal he knows is waiting for him. He digs out a pair of sweatpants he's stashed here and steals one of Wade's oversized shirts, soft from wear, needing the extra comfort right now. Dressed, he pads out to the living room, where Wade is sprawled out on the couch, a platter of breakfast food spread out on the coffee table in front of him. It’s clear he’s kept cooking while Peter was back there, since breakfast/dinner now includes bacon, eggs, and hash browns. 

He perks up the instant Peter appears, attention obviously having been at least half-focused on waiting for him to return, and he scootches over to make room. 

Peter takes advantage of that space to curl up and wedge himself into his boyfriend's comfy side. 

Wade drapes an elbow over his head, passing him a smaller plate already decorated with a pancake with a bacon smiley face on top, which makes Peter smile in spite of himself. "Seeing as _someone_ neglected their picking-things-to-watch duties, I did your job for you and picked the Golden Girls, since that was definitely what you were going to pick anyway."

"It's like you're psychic or something," Peter agrees, already shoving a pancake in his mouth and promptly moaning in appreciation.

"I know, right?" Wade says. 

They're halfway through their first episode, narrated by Wade's creative commentary, before he abruptly says, "You know, my psychic senses tell me you need to take a break and take care of yourself anyway. So, silver linings, eh?”

If the topic had been anything else, it would have been a strange leap, but Peter knows the knowledge of the situation hasn’t truly left the back of either of their minds since he got here. 

“Yeah, because the perfect time for me to take a break is in the middle of a pandemic,” he mumbles. 

“Yeah, it is, actually,” Wade says, pausing the show. “Because there’s no one on the streets, crime’s down even without your help, and because we both know you’re never going to do it if something doesn’t _make_ you. And _don’t_ give me that ‘great responsibility” bullshit,” he adds as soon as Peter opens his mouth to respond. “You know what else is a great responsibility? Your responsibility to _yourself_ , because otherwise you’re going to snap, and that’s how we get fucking supervillains. And the whole spider theme is already on the edge of creepy, so you’re borderline to begin with. Plus, you’re dating _me_ , so overall you just really don’t need the extra push, okay?” 

For once, Peter isn’t laughing. “You’re right, people _aren’t_ out on the streets right now,” he says, in a measured tone. “They’re trapped inside, out of sight, many of them alone, with no one to check on them or help them when they need it. And now I’m trapped inside, just like them, and I can’t _do_ anything, not for myself and not for them. And I’m supposed to be _better_ than this. I’m supposed to be strong enough to be there when people need it, not be lying around on the couch watching sitcoms when people _need me._ ” His voice steadily grows louder the longer he talks, until he’s nearly yelling at the other man. 

Wade doesn’t rise to meet him, just watches him, expression indecipherable. And Peter _hates_ that expression, hates it so much that a swell of anger rises in him like a wall, because he knows full well that Wade can read him in a way he does not want to be read. “You know, you’re not the martyr you think you are. You just can’t stand the idea of feeling weak.” 

Peter lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, that’s because I fucking know what it feels like.” 

Whatever Wade might have said in response, he’s cut off by the sound of Peter’s phone buzzing on the table. Peter doesn’t hesitate, snatching the phone up and jerking away from Wade to head for the bedroom without looking back.

He barely glances at the caller ID before picking up, already knowing exactly who it is. "Hey May," he says, doing his best to hide any trace of the lingering anger from his tone. “How’s it going?” 

"Peter," she says, sounding relieved, though the ever-present exhaustion is still clear in her voice. "Honey, are you okay?"

"Yeah, May, I'm fine, honest,” he sighs, sitting down heavily on the bed. “Look, this is just me being careful, I don't think I'm even gonna get sick. I mean, I've been swinging all around the city, what are the odds that this is the first time I'm being exposed?"

She lets out a huff he can hear through the phone, that familiar brand of worry and amusement that only May can pull off. "Yeah, sure. Remind me how much you like tempting fate." She lets out a longer, more genuine sigh. "But you're right. This was pretty inevitable."

"Yeah." He curls his toes in the soft carpeting. "Plus, you know, at least you'll know right where I am for the next fourteen days. That's gotta be a bit of a relief."

"Sure, anything that keeps you off the streets," she says, a teasing note in her voice that he's relieved to hear. "And Wade's there with you, right? You've got someone to keep an eye on you, keep you company?"

"Yep," he says flatly. "That's the whole point, yeah?”

He winces at himself, knowing that with that tone, May will lock in on the fact that something’s wrong in an instant. 

But she merely hums distractedly. “Of course.” 

He feels a pang, and shoves it down deep inside, feeling instantly guilty for wishing that she wouldn’t choose now of all times to miss this. 

She sighs, a distant crackle along the line. "I've gotta go, my break's up. You take care of yourself, okay? I want status updates."

"Promise," he agrees, swallowing. "Larb you."

“Larb you too, Peter.” 

The line goes dead, and he's left standing in the bedroom, alone and feeling heavy and out of place. 

He pads slowly back out, to where Wade is entertaining himself by making little origami figures out of the napkins. Peter comes up beside him, sitting down hesitantly next to him on the couch. “Hey,” he whispers. 

"Hey yourself," Wade whispers back. "How's May?"

"She's fine.” He falls silent, awkward. He fidgets for a moment, before plucking up one of the origami figures to fiddle with. It’s a four-legged...something, and he turns it over in his hands. “I wanted to say thank you,” he mumbles at last. “For letting me stay here. It...it really does mean a lot to me, and I’m sorry if I seemed like a jerk earlier.”

“Hey, no, you don’t - you’re not being a jerk,” Wade sighs, setting down the napkin he’s been playing with and scooting closer to him. “You’re frustrated, and I get it, and I’m sorry.” 

Peter shifts closer as well, turning into his warmth. “You know, I can think of a good way to relieve that frustration,” he murmurs. “Besides, I don’t think I’ve really expressed how grateful I am yet.” 

He feels Wade shiver, and his voice is lower and rougher when he says, "I could hear it again."

"Mm." Peter trails his fingers along the ridges and whorls of scar tissue that cover his arms. "You know, two weeks is a long time to spend stuck in-doors. You got any creative ideas for what we could do with that time?” 

Wade twists around with a growl, scooping Peter up and standing. 

He lets him, wrapping his legs around the larger man's waist to pull himself even closer, made slightly breathless as always at Wade's easy display of strength. He laughs a little, their mouths meeting in the middle, as Wade carries him into the bedroom, dropping him lightly on the bed. Peter quickly gets his shirt off, before realizing Wade has paused, standing in front of him still fully dressed. Peter looks him up and down pointedly. "Well, this seems unfair," he says. 

"You know you don't actually have to be grateful to me for letting you stay here, right?" Wade says abruptly, his expression suddenly unusually hard to read. 

Peter sits up slightly, frowning at the sudden shift in mood. "But I am though," he says slowly. "I mean obviously I'm not just fucking you because I can’t get you a thank you card, but I AM grateful, and I DO wanna do something nice for you. I know I'm kind of putting you out by being stuck here, and I seriously appreciate that you're willing to put up with me for that long."

"Okay. But like," Wade plops down next to him, to his mild dismay still fully dressed, though he's quickly distracted from that by the sheer seriousness of his tone. "I'm NOT just putting up with you, and I kinda really want you to know that. I fucking love you, and having you trapped in an apartment with me is basically the dream, and I mean that in a non-creepy way."

"There's pretty much no way to say that in a non-creepy way, but go on."

"My POINT is," Wade continues, slightly louder to drown him out. "Even if you take this chance to be the most obnoxious roommate-slash-boyfriend to ever exist, which you won't because you're, you know, you -"

"I am indeed me, your detective skills are on point today."

"How the fuck are you only the annoying one as soon as I try to be genuine and shit?"

"I'm always the annoying one, it's why big guys in weird costumes are so into beating me up."

Wade claps a hand over Peter's mouth. "EVEN IF, you decide to do your best impersonation of me for the entire next fourteen days, I would still be glad you're here, because I love you and knowing you're safe and happy makes ME happy, and it would even if you made me wish you would go be safe and happy somewhere else. Which I don't, and I'm not going to, because then your sweet booty would be somewhere else too, and that would make me sad." 

He punctuates the end of his speech by hooking his fingers in the corners of Peter's mouth, pulling them down to make a frowny face, which doesn't work super well because Peter is too busy grinning from ear to ear. "You're such a sap when you're horny," he says, after spitting Wade's fingers out. 

"I'm a sap all the time, oh honey bunches of oats, that's why I'm always so sticky!"

"Ew," Peter says agreeably. "I can't believe I'm still going to fuck you after hearing you say that."

"You're a man of many mysteries," Wade agrees, before kissing him hard and deep.

…

The first two days are okay. Good, even. Maybe even a little bit great, in those early hours when he gets to sleep in and wake with limbs entangled with Wade’s. 

They order takeout for dinner, from their favorite Chinese restaurant even though they have their free pick of restaurants doing delivery at this point. They watch tv, they play video games, and they fuck, hard and fast and slow and affectionate. Neither of them has anywhere else they need to be, and for once in his life Peter is able to push aside the guilt that always nags in the background whenever he takes time for himself, the knowledge that somewhere someone could die because he was playing a game instead of patrolling. 

But right now, he is doing the responsible thing, he reminds himself. He is protecting anyone he could meet and infect completely by accident. He's doing his part, he tells his guilt.

And on the third day, he starts to cough. 

The stupid thing is he doesn't even notice at first, so convinced that he's not actually going to get sick, that this whole quarantine is just one big safety precaution, that he isn't paying very close attention to his own body and health. He's not sure when the first cough comes. Maybe sometime that morning, brushed off as just being caused by the steam in the shower as he washes off the light sweat worked up by their early morning activities? Maybe during breakfast, ignored as nothing more than a crumb that went down the wrong pipe?

He can't say, but what he DOES know is that he first realizes he's coughing while browsing the news, sitting on the couch and waiting for Wade to get back from a grocery supply run. 

He clears his throat, and the itch remains.

A sinking sense of dread in his chest, he gets up and heads for the bathroom, grabbing the thermometer from the cabinet.

It's nothing, he tells himself as he waits for it to beep. People cough sometimes, even people who've been bitten by radioactive spiders. There's no cause for serious alarm here. 

After possibly the longest thirty seconds of his life, the thermometer finally goes off. 97.1. Low, but it has been since the spiderbite, part of his mutation, and he takes a moment to be frustrated at his own damn wacky physiology. 

From the front door, he hears the sound of the key in the lock, and hurriedly stuffs the thermometer away as the front door opens. "Spidey-pie, I'm home," Wade calls in a sing-song voice. 

"Be right out, babe," he shouts back. He flushes the toilet and runs the sink for a few seconds, just to be safe. 

After all, why worry Wade over nothing? He's already doing so much. No need to add this to his plate. 

He goes out to help him put away the groceries. .

"Hey babe," Wade greets him brightly. "They were out of, like, everything, but I did alright. And look, I got your favorite poptarts, they're s'more flavored! That should make up for the fact that we're mostly out of paper towels."

"It definitely doesn't, but thanks for thinking of me," he says, grinning. 

He suppresses the itch in his throat, absently listening to Wade chattering happily away as he puts them in the pantry. 

Everything's fine. No need to worry him. 

...

The next morning, he wakes up to the world burning. 

He's shivering, even as he kicks the blankets off of him, desperate to find some relief from the agonizing heat beneath his skin, but the burning in his chest remains untouched. He coughs, every cough dragging at the inside of his lungs like someone has reached down his throat and is trying to remove them by force. By the time the coughing fit subsides, he's weak and breathless where he lies, the sheet still half-tangled around one leg, but he doesn't have the energy to remove it. The embers beneath his ribs stay put, even more painful than before. 

He blinks, and Wade's face is floating before him. His lips are moving, but it takes Peter a moment to focus before the words reach him. " - burning up. Jesus, Petey, why didn't you say anything?" 

If Peter didn't know any better, he'd say Wade looks frightened, but that doesn't make sense. If there’s a threat, Wade should be fighting it, not hunched over Peter where anything could attack him. He tries to lift his head to look around, trying to see what the threat is, because if there's a threat he should know, they might need his powers. 

But his head feels so heavy, and he is so, so tired. 

" - right back," a voice says from somewhere in the blackness, as if from underwater. He hadn’t even noticed his eyes slip shut. 

He hums in response, promptly triggering another fit of coughing that seems to last even longer than the last time and leaves his head swimming. The presence at his side disappears as he concentrates on just breathing through the pain, even though his lungs rattled and strain, feeling like they refuse to fill up all the way, leaving him to take half-breaths that only barely push back the panicked feeling like he’s drowning. 

It could be seconds later or hours, the time measured only in rattling breaths, but eventually the presence reappears at his side, murmuring as it props his head up. He forces himself to concentrate, becoming aware that there’s a glass of ginger ale held up to his lips.

“C’mon, baby boy, drink a couple sips. Your metabolism needs the sugar and fluids,” Wade coaxes. 

He obeys, swallowing until his stomach rebels, and he has to push the glass away with a groan. There’s a clink as the glass is set down, then Wade is pushing him over onto his side. He nearly protests, but then with another gentle push he’s flipped onto his stomach, and he relaxes, lungs struggling a little less in this new position. 

“You go right on ahead and rest, Petey, I gotcha. I’m gonna be here when you wake up, I promise. Don’t worry about anything but getting better,” he whispers, settling next to him in the bed. 

Peter almost snorts at that. Like he’s got the energy to worry. 

But he does feel badly that Wade is. Really, it isn’t worth all this fuss and concern. "'m sorry," he mutters, the darkness already pulling him down. 

He thinks he can feel fingers running through his hair, before he hears nothing more. 

...

He drifts in the eternal fever, somewhere between conscious and not. He dreams, images and sensations that blend with hazy reality until its impossible to tell wakefulness from sleep. Sometimes he’s floating in the water of the bay, sea water flooding his suit that’s as loose as soft sheets wrapped around him. Sometimes it's a building resting on his chest, pressing his lungs down until they feel like they’ll burst against the mattress and he nearly sobs in desperation as he tries to push it off of himself, hands swiping at nothing. He cries out, pleading for someone, anyone to help him, and hands hold him steady amidst the rubble, murmuring words of comfort to him until sleep pulls him back like the tide through the ash and broken stone to somewhere distant and indistinct. 

Sometimes, when he’s closer to awake than asleep, Wade takes the opportunity to make him drink ginger ale and kitchen soup, which he allows only because he's too weary to really put up a fight, knowing that the sooner he cooperates the sooner he’ll once again be allowed to drift blessedly detached from his misery. 

...

It is night the next time he wakes up, the room dark around him, and he knows instantly that he's worse. Much worse. 

The weight on his chest no longer feels like it’s crushing his lungs. It feels like his lungs have been filled with concrete, and no matter how deeply he tries to breathe, there’s simply no room left for them to draw in air. The funny thing is he can’t even find it in him to be afraid, only a weary, aching sort of resignation. 

After all, he knows well enough what dying feels like. 

He blinks, Wade appears, kneeling down in front of him next to the bed, expression tight and pale. If he was able to muster the strength to be alarmed, he would be at Wade’s ability to move so close to him without him hearing it. His super-hearing feels so muted and clogged that it might be even more faint than he remembers it used to be pre-bite. 

A phone is pressed to Wade’s ear, and his lips are moving, though Peter can’t be bothered to focus on the distant words. He lets the murmuring wash over him, tone rising and falling like the waves rocking him to sleep. His eyes slip closed for a second before he forces them open again, realizing that without the sight of Wade, there is nothing for his mind to focus on except the crackling, pointless breaths that only leave his chest feeling like there is a black hole behind his ribs, hollow and empty and so, so cold.

Wade drops the phone on the bedside table, standing and disappearing from his line of sight. Peter instantly wishes he’d come back. 

He’s shivering, he realizes, the tips of his fingers numb and icy where they curl under the covers. He tries to make a fist to warm them, and realizes his eyes have slid shut again. 

This time, he can’t find the strength to pry them back open. 

Suddenly, a warm weight sets down on the bed next to him. A thigh presses against his hip, and he leans into it, wheezing. 

"Shh, shh, I gotcha," Wade's voice reaches him, a strained brittleness beneath the words. The weight shifts, and two warm arms wrap around him, drawing him closer. "You're going to be okay, you're going to be just fine." He says it like a chant, like a prayer, and Peter wonders exactly what it must take for Wade Wilson to need to pray. 

The arms pull at him, lifting him like a wounded, dying animal until he’s propped upright against a blazingly hot chest. His limp weight rests against the solid mass, pressed steadily against his shoulder blades, steady as a mountain. He can do nothing but let it, his thin gasps sounding too loud even to his own muted ears. 

"C'mon baby boy, I need you to breathe," Wade’s voice says urgently into his ear.

He _wants_ to obey. God, can’t Wade see he’s trying? Can’t he feel how heavy the concrete in his chest is, doesn’t he know how much it _hurts_?

" _Please,_ " he says, and he sounds so fucking shattered that Peter’s heart aches for him. He wishes he could open his eyes to see him, but his eyelids are as heavy as the lungs that are dragging him down, down, towards somewhere dark and warm and peaceful.

He is so, so tired.

Something strikes him hard between his shoulder blades, and his whole chest spasms. He coughs until his lungs and throat are screaming, forced abruptly back into his own body and away from any peace the darkness might have promised, and he could almost cry at the loss if his head wasn’t so busy spinning.

When it finally passes, he is still there. His lungs are still fighting, still gasping in air which barely seems to reach him. 

But it _does_ reach him. 

"Breathe with me," Wade tells him, and he weakly does his best to copy the exaggerated breathes of the chest behind him.

There is so little he has the strength for, but this, at least, he can manage. 

And so the night passes slow and aching, measured only by the rise and fall of the chest behind him and his own ragged, wheezing imitation. And all through it, the Wade’s voice is there, in between harsh fits of coughing, murmuring words of encouragement, and when those run out telling rambling stories of anything and everything, and when those run out, merely telling him again and again that he is loved. 

The dawn breaks, and he is still breathing. 

Somewhere in those early morning hours, something finally starts to shift, the breaths coming ever-so-slightly easier. His lungs still feel like he's choking on water, but breathing at least feels like it accomplishes something, like oxygen is making its way into his system every time his ribs expand. 

He's so exhausted, the world seeming to gently sway already, that he barely notices when his position shifts, only becoming aware that he's been moved when he feels soft sheets against his cheek and realizes he's laying down flat on his stomach once more. There may be time in between that realization and when he once again drifts into true unconsciousness, but if there is he won't remember it later, the same way he won't remember the quiet, shuddering breath that borders on a sob, or the kiss pressed against his hair.

… 

He wakes stiff and aching, to the feeling of having been unconscious for some time. He cracks his eyes, crusted closed by sleep, to see that the light coming through the window is the faded blue of twilight. 

A full body scan of himself shows that he's tired, a bone-deep sort of tired, but not sleepy. His head is swimming, and he suspects a headache will form if before too long. His chest feels like it's been hit by a truck, a sensation he can personally attest to his experience with. His muscles are sore in a way he hasn't really felt since he was a child with the flu, way back prior to the bite. 

A flash of distant memory caresses his mind like an exhale. A hand brushing through his hair, May softly putting down soup on the table beside him, tucking the blanket up around his chin and watching him, sympathy and concern in her eyes. The memory blurs, larger hands laying him gently down, scarred skin tight around worried eyes. 

He groans softly, turning his head slightly into the pillow. 

He _hates_ seeing that concern in other people's eyes, almost as much as he hates being the person to put it there. 

Why does he still have to be such a fucking _burden,_ when getting his powers was supposed to make him strong enough to _protect_ the people he loves from that kind of fear?

At his groan, he hears the abrupt sound of approaching footsteps. The door doesn't creak, telling him it must have been left open, and the footsteps proceed across the soft carpet to the bed uninterrupted. His spidey-sense remains calm, so when the person sits down beside him on the bed, he merely turns over towards them with a sigh, reaching out in the dim light for the person who he knows must be Wade.

"Peter," he breathes. He sounds almost as exhausted as Peter feels, and Peter opens his eyes again, searching for his face in the dim light. The light from the window is nearly gone, and the primary source of light in the room is the faint orange glow that makes its way in through the open door from the kitchen. "How do you feel?"

"Like someone dropped me off the Empire State Building," he rasps, wincing at his voice, which sounds like he's been gargling glass, "and then shot me out of a cannon straight down into the ocean without a diving suit."

"Spoken like a man with experience. Been fighting some weird villains without telling me, baby bear?"

"Just the sheer power of my stunning imagination." Peter pushes himself up to a seated position, even though he kind of wants nothing more than to just stay lying down and wait for sleep to take him again. The change in angle jerks another sharp coughing fit out of him, which feels exactly as glass-edged as his throat does. Wade's hand settles on his shoulder as if to steady him, helpless to do much more than offer his closeness. Peter threads their fingers together, giving it a comforting squeeze in return before uncurling a bit from where he's hunched over. "So what did I miss?" he rasps out. 

"Just your average boring, let's see," he looks down at his wrist as though checking an invisible watch. "Fourteen hours," he says, tone light. 

Despite the forced cheer, Peter doesn't miss the tension underneath, the slight strain that would probably be detectable even to someone who didn't know Wade as well as Peter does. To Peter, it’s as clear as a neon sign.

Nevertheless, if humor is how Wade is coming at this, Peter can meet him where he’s at. “Woof, that’s a hell of a nap. High school me would be so jealous.”

Something in Wade's face, cast in odd shadows, tightens, and Peter recognizes the way something fractures underneath. "Wade," he says quietly, something, an apology maybe, forming on his tongue, but he's cut off before he can verbalize it. 

"Why the hell didn't you tell me when you started feeling sick?" Wade says, just as quietly, and the hair on the back of Peter's neck prickles at the danger in his tone. "And don't try to bullshit me," he snaps when Peter opens his mouth. "The thermometer was on a different shelf, which means you moved it, which means you thought you might be sick. You knew at least a day before I did."

"I didn't -" Peter lets out a harsh breath, ignoring the ache in his chest as he scrubs at his eyes, a headache building even quicker than he'd predicted. "I didn't want you to have to worry."

Wade lets out a short bark of laughter, and there's no humor in it at all. "You didn't want me to worry. Oh that's - that's a good one. That's comedy gold right there. Thank you, Spider-Man, for saving me the stress, you're a goddamn hero. That's your biggest fucking problem, you know that?"

"Hey," Peter says sharply, anger and defensiveness growing. "I didn't fucking ask to get sick. I was just trying to make shit a little easier for _you,_ you asshole."

"Yeah, I _know,_ you - _aghhh_." He stands up, so suddenly Peter nearly flinches back, but he only grabs a glass of orange juice Peter hadn't noticed off the bedside table and shoves it at him. Peter's fingers wrap around the glass reflexively, only his heightened reflexes keeping it from spilling all over him. "Don't you fucking get that I _want_ to be there for you? Hiding your shit makes that fucking _harder_ for me, because it means I also have to worry that something’s wrong and you don’t fucking _trust me_ with it.” He sits down heavily on the bed, lips pressed thin and face almost white. 

"I _do_ trust you," Peter says roughly back. "I trust you so fucking much, I just - I mean I wouldn't even be here if I didn't trust you, but that doesn't mean you should have to - to fuss over me all day like I'm a fucking kid."

"But, Peter, it’s my _choice_ to do that," he says. "I'm not fucking taking care of you because I think you need me to, I'm doing it because making you happy and seeing you be healthy and safe makes me happy, because I fucking love you. Why the fuck you gotta make that so hard to do, huh?"

Peter blinks down at the juice in his hands, and to his embarrassment, finds his eyes are welling up with tears. 

"Oh - oh hey, c'mon now, don't - don't do that," Wade says, tone changing from frustrated to horrified in a heartbeat. 

"I'm not, I'm just - my eyes are watering 'cause I'm sick, that's all," Peter mumbles, blotting desperately at his face with a sleeve, even as Wade wraps his arms around him, pulling him in against his chest and forcing Peter to hold the glass out away from them so it doesn't spill all over both of them. Wade pulls back for only a second to pluck the still-full glass from his hand and set it back on the bedside table, before pulling him in tightly once more. This time, Peter hugs him back. 

Wade's arms are tight around him, and Peter notices the way he's trembling, ever so slightly, and he burrows further into his chest, trying to reassure him. "I really didn't know if you were going to make it, baby boy," he whispers into his hair. "You were struggling so hard to breathe, and I was so scared I called Bruce so he could tell me what to do, and when he had me check your pulse it - it was so weak."

"Shh, I'm okay, I'm fine," Peter murmurs into his shoulder. "What kind of shitty fucking universe would it be if I survived all the shit I've survived just to die in my own bed from a cough?"

"It would be exactly the sort of universe we live in," Wade mumbles under his breath. “Besides, it’s _my_ bed, and to be honest I’m pretty sure the gods have it out for me, so that sounds like a thing they’d get a good laugh out of.”

Peter snorts softly. Then, a thought occurs to him, and his heart sinks. “Does May know I’m sick?”

Wade is silent for a long moment, long enough that Peter starts to get concerned, before he sighs heavily. “This is going to make me sound like a giant hypocrite, but...no. I didn’t want her to worry when there was nothing she could do. But Bruce said to have you call him when you woke up.”

Peter groans. His energy is waning fast, and in truth he’d be perfectly happy to just lie back down and sleep for a week. 

“If you want, I can just text him for you. You don’t have to do it now,” Wade murmurs, clearly reading his mood. 

He shakes his head. “Nah, he deserves to hear from me. Besides, I really gotta piss,” he tells him honestly, and Wade chuckles, releasing him from his arms. 

But Peter hesitates, chewing his lip. “Hey, do you think you could make me some tea?” he asks at last. “It, um. It tastes better when you make it,” he adds quietly.

Wade’s face instantly softens, and he leans down to kiss him, even though it occurs to Peter too late that he probably has terrible morning breath. “Of course, Petey,” he says warmly, “I’d be _thrilled_ to.”

Peter huffs a laugh, allowing the other man to help him to his feet. He’s weak and shaky, but still standing. 

It doesn’t escape his understanding that things could have been much, much worse. 

He heads for the bathroom first, deciding that as badly as he needs one, a shower can wait till morning, though he does take the time to brush his teeth. When he comes back, he picks his phone up from where he finds it dropped haphazardly on the floor at the foot of the bed. He pulls up Bruce’s name easily as the last number dialed, and presses call. 

The phone rings only three times before he picks up. “Wade?” Bruce’s voice says sharply. “What’s happened?”

“No, it’s uh, it’s me this time,” Peter says, smiling awkwardly even though the other man can’t see him. “I’m up and at ‘em again.”

“Oh thank god,” Bruce sighs heavily, static along the line. “How are you feeling? Is your fever down? How are your lungs managing? What symptoms are you still experiencing?” 

“Um. Better than before, I haven’t checked my temperature yet but I don’t feel feverish, lungs...hurt, but I can breathe, and I don’t know, I guess I have a headache and I’m pretty tired?” he says, doing his best to answer the barrage of questions. “The point is, I’m like 80% fine, which is _basically_ totally okay.” 

If it had been Tony or pretty much anyone else, he would have been able to hear the eye roll over the phone, but Bruce doesn’t take the bait. “I’m really glad you’re okay, Peter,” he says, entirely sincere. 

“Yeah, me too,” Peter murmurs. “Thanks for helping Wade out.” 

“Of course. You didn’t mention you were dating Wade Wilson,” he adds, sounding both reproachful and amused. “It was probably the last voice I expected to hear calling me.”

“If you say anything bad about him, I’m hanging up,” Peter warns. 

“I won’t, I won’t,” Bruce hurries to reassure. “I was just surprised, that’s all. But...I can tell he cares about you a great deal,” he says gently. 

“Yeah,” Peter says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. In the kitchen, he can hear the sound of the water bubbling in the kettle, just starting to whistle. Wade is humming to himself, rustling around in the cupboard in search of buried tea bags. “Yeah, I think he really does.” 

“You should bring him by for dinner sometime,” Bruce suggests. “When it’s safe to, of course. I know Tony can be a bit...stubborn, but I think the two of you are perfectly capable of setting him straight.” 

“When it’s safe to,” Peter agrees. He swallows, aware of how far away that might be, how long it might be before he gets to sit down to dinner with his friends, his _family_ again. “I think that would be really nice.”

In the kitchen, he hears the faint clink of a mug being set on a saucer, and Wade’s footsteps padding towards him. “Hey, I’m going to go, Wade’s making some tea. Thanks again for all the help,” he says. 

“Of course, Peter. And I hope you both know you can call me if you need anything else, right?” Bruce responds kindly. 

“I will. _We_ will.” 

“Get some rest. Make sure you’re drinking lots of fluids.” 

“Right back at ya.” 

Bruce laughs lightly, and Peter is still smiling as he hangs up the phone. “Thanks,” he murmurs, reaching out to take the mug of tea from Wade as he comes through the door. 

“I added honey, I figured your throat probably needed it,” Wade says, heading around to lie down on the other side of the bed. 

“It’s perfect.” Peter kisses him affectionately, deeper this time now that his teeth are clean. 

He drains about half the mug before setting it aside, curling into Wade, who tugs the covers up over them both.

“Thank you,” Peter whispers. 

Wade tangles his fingers gently in his hair, scritching them lightly against his scalp, and Peter can already feel himself dozing off to the soothing sensation. “Tomorrow, things will be better,” he whispers back. 

Together, they fall asleep like that, curled around each other in the soft warmth of the blankets. And in the morning, Peter will wake to find his neck is sore from sleeping with it draped awkwardly across Wade’s shoulder, and he will smile anyway when he realizes the pain in his lungs is nearly gone, though it will still linger for some time to come. 

Things will not be okay, not yet. But they are alive, and they are together, and the world is still far bigger and their lives far longer than those lonely fevered days, and that _counts_ for something. 

Even now, that counts for something.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/critiques on this are 1000% welcome. tbh I wasn't totally sure if this was something I was going to end up posting, but I figured hey, if it helped me to write it, maybe it'll help someone else to read it. 
> 
> Side note: turning someone onto their stomach IS something which has been recommended for covid patients who are struggling to breathe. I don't know about propping someone upright, but that is something that can sometimes help pneumonia patients with the fluid in their lungs, so I decided to include it here, feel free to correct me if I'm off-base. I also messed a lot with the actual timing of how the virus progresses, and I simplified down to the most basic of symptoms, because writing about genetically enhanced superheroes gives me certain creative liberties. 
> 
> Anyway. I only read back through this once because I didn't really want to spend more time with it than necessary, and it's not betaed, so any mistakes are on me, feel free to point them out. 
> 
> Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. Stay safe out there, take care of each other, and don't be afraid to let others take care of you <3


End file.
